


Crema

by MenthaLightfoot



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coffee, Enjolras-centric, Gen, Platonic superhusbands in the first scene, but the theme overall is coffee, focuses on the "charming" aspect of Enjolras's personality, there is a bit of a story arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:41:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MenthaLightfoot/pseuds/MenthaLightfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras's complicated relationship with coffee during exams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crema

**Author's Note:**

> Because I wanted to write about Enjolras, and I wanted to write about coffee. Based on the headcanon that Enjolras wouldn't drink black coffee, because he doesn't like the taste, so he only drinks really sweet, syrup-heavy drinks. 
> 
> The crema is the thin layer of light brown foam that develops on the top of a well-brewed shot of espresso.

It was the beginning of spring final exams, and Combeferre’s kitchen table was a flurry; papers were scattered in piles all over the table, most of the chairs, and parts of the floor. Enjolras’s philosophy and politics sources were arranged in a corona around his laptop, where he could easily reach any of them, the text splashed with orange and green highlighter. Combeferre had dragged the white board out of the living room, and was making a list of the differences in vascular systems of various plant genuses, humming softly under his breath.

The timer on his phone went off, little arpeggios of violins playing; they had set a break for midnight. He stood up straight, and his back twinged. He rolled his shoulders and yawned, grappling for the phone to turn off the alarm. He missed several times before his fingers found it.

Midnight already, and he hadn’t gotten to Coffee. It was definitely time for coffee.

He put his marker down in the little tray and headed over to the counter. “I’m making coffee.”

Enjolras hmmed, but didn’t look up or slow in his typing.

Combeferre glanced at him as he took the filters out of the cupboard. “I’m assuming you want some?”

Enjolras shook his head. “No.”

Combeferre turned to look at him. Enjolras had let down his ponytail a while ago, and the hanging curls curtained and darkened his face. His eyes were heavy, and turning pink around the irises. “Are you sure?”

Enjolras shuffled through one of the piles near his elbow, plucking a packet out of the middle and laying it where he could see it and type at the same time. “Yes. Though if you can get me a glass of water, I’d appreciate it.”

Combeferre filled the filter with grounds; he couldn’t afford amazing coffee, but the smell alone lifted his spirits a little. The coffeemaker fizzled, and the first amber drops dripped down into the carafe. He opened the cabinet and took out a glass, filling it with water and bringing it over to Enjolras.

“Thank you.” Enjolras sat back in his chair, stretching his shoulders and taking a long sip.

“How much do you have left?” Combeferre asked.

“Three more pages and citations. You?”

“I have to outline the chemical processes of transpiration and conduction.”

Enjolras grimaced. “I don’t know what’s worse—chemical reaction trails or catering your essay to your professor’s whims.”

“Chemical reaction trails,” Combeferre said. “You get to sit in a chair and write in comfort. I have to stand.”

Enjolras smirked and raised an eyebrow.  

The coffeemaker gave one last sputtering whine, and Combeferre rounded the counter. “Are you sure you don’t want any of this? You’re looking pretty run down.”

Enjolras came over and found the stash of snacks he kept squirreled in Combeferre’s kitchen, plucking out a small bag of sweet potato chips. “I’m fine. It’s better to stay hydrated and eat than to jack yourself up on caffeine. But then again, I don’t have to _stand._ ”

Combeferre chuckled, filling a mug up to the brim. “I knew you were saving it.”

“We could go on forever in a battle to see who has the most work. Let’s just accept that we’re both masochists and be done with it.”  He shoved three chips in his mouth, trying to chew them without mushy crumbs showering down his shirt.

Combeferre held up his full mug. “To masochism. May we forever sacrifice our sanity in the name of the future of society.”

Enjolras laughed and clinked his bag against it.

\---

Two days and two exams down, and Enjolras was in his element. He and Courfeyrac were studying together for their international law final exam in the library. They had staked a claim at the best table the library had to offer—multiple plugs, close to the coffee place, and only a few steps away from the elevators, which would lead up into the stacks and give them all the books they needed. They took turns going up, so that no one would snag the table in the time they were gone. Enjolras had seen some seat snatchers lurking around, looking for the first place that opened up. He had come at around four in the morning to snag this spot; it had almost been too early, but last semester he had made the mistake of coming in at ten, and by then every seat with a plug was taken. He was prepared this time.

He shouldn’t have enjoyed the crestfallen faces of people approaching and seeing the table was taken (especially large groups), but he did. He needed something to give him joy after three hours of unpacking and explaining Hegel.

“Enjolras!” Grantaire didn’t really have an inside voice, and a chorus of grumbles and tired eyes followed him angrily as he cantered over to their table. He was still wearing his uniform and duckbill hat, and he had two paper cups in his hands.

Courfeyrac instantly perked up. “Oh my god. I love him. Please, keep stringing him along forever, so that I may reap the benefits.”  

“I’m not stringing him along,” Enjolras snipped back. “I’ve told him I’m not interested. I’m too busy.” He was. It was true—Grantaire was funny and sweet when he wasn’t being _impossible_ , but Enjolras had priorities, and he planned to stick to them.

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “I’ve caught you staring at his ass one too many times to believe that. When you finally have your uptown-boy-meets-downtown-ruffian sex scene, I will be there to say I told you so. And to tape it.”

Enjolras started preparing a biting reply, but Grantaire had reached them, and Enjolras tucked it away for later.

“Hi.” Grantaire grinned and held out the cup to him. “I got this for you.”

“Aren’t you working?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire shrugged. “Theodore can cover for me. Besides, you look like you need this.”

“What is it?” Enjolras asked, gingerly taking the cup. He pried off the lid, and the smell of black coffee immediately hit his nose, making it wrinkle slightly. He sighed—of course it was coffee. Grantaire probably wasn’t allowed to give out anything else. Usually he would just stomach it and drink it, but he was worn down from so much stress, and he just didn’t want to deal with it today.

“What do you think? Coffee. The stuff probably makes up half of your blood content by now. I didn’t know if you wanted anything in it, but we have milk and stuff over at the cart.”

Enjolras cringed inside. That was an open invitation for flirting and conversation—of course if Enjolras would come over, and then Grantaire would snag him in with banter or some kind of comment on the news today. It used to draw him in like a moth to a light, but after a year or so of being pursued, Enjolras spoke fluent Grantaire, including body language. All of that was laid out for him, like a diagram on Grantaire’s face.

He snapped the lid back on the cup. “Thank you, but I’m not really thirsty right now.” He put the cup on his other side, next to Courfeyrac’s arm.

Grantaire only smiled brighter than before. “Come on. You know you want it,” he sang. He waved the other cup under Enjolras’s nose for a moment, and then put it on top of Enjolras’s last draft.

Enjolras stared at it, and shook his head reluctantly. “I’m fine. It’s a nice gesture, though.” He smiled in what he hoped would be a placating way. The smallest things that Enjolras wouldn’t think twice about hurt Grantaire deeply, and Enjolras always felt terrible when Grantaire got that _look_ on his face. 

Grantaire nodded, and the look started creeping up into his eyes, marring their sweet blueness into a bruise. “Sure. Yeah. That’s fine. I guess I’ll see you later, then.”

He stood up and waved goodbye, but it wasn’t with the same hopeful pep as before. When he was safely installed behind the coffee counter and filling orders, Enjolras threw down his highlighter and rubbed his eyes with his palms.

“You couldn’t just take the damn coffee?” Courfeyrac asked.

“I don’t want it,” Enjolras said. “It’s not personal.”

“It is to _him_. You have to throw him a bone or something, Enjolras. He’s fucking _in love_ with you.”

“I know he is!”

One of the girls at the table near them shushed him. He made a face at her, and she flipped him off.

He sat up and put his hands back to the keyboard. “I’ll apologize. I will. I just don’t want the coffee. You drink it.”

Courfeyrac gave him a look, but Enjolras calmly found his place and started typing again, and eventually Courfeyrac let it go, sipping the first of the two coffees.

He would make it up. He would. Just…after these last few pages.

\---

It was over. He was done.

He sauntered out of his last exam (he had killed it—the timed practice exam he had done the night before had paid off like he knew he would) and walked out of the building in a daze. When the first streams of summer sunshine warmed his face, he grinned.

The entire week (week and a half, if you counted the time when he’d truly started preparing) he had been shut away, in the library or in Combeferre’s apartment, weighed down by hundreds of sheets of paper and the words of dead men floating around behind his eyes. This was the first time he could really _enjoy_ himself; the school year was done, he had an internship for the summer, and he and Combeferre were set to move into their apartment for next year in two weeks.

_Yes._

People gave him pitied looks when they saw how hard he worked, how much he denied himself. But now he was set, and he didn’t feel an ounce of guilt about feeling gloriously above them. He had _earned_ this moment.

He could do whatever he wanted. Whatever his heart desired.

He wanted to go to the Musain. Their whole group had made plans to meet there later in the evening, but a few hours of relaxation on his own would be _divine_.

He wandered through campus, taking the long route, past the art building with its beautiful neoclassical façade. He crossed behind it, out of campus and into the webbing of the streets of Paris.

He stopped at a creperie that Grantaire had told him about. Of course, the implication was that they should go together, but Enjolras was hungry _now_.

Grantaire didn’t disappoint. Enjolras had the _crepe_ _poulet et fromage_ , and when he bit into it he had to duck his mouth to catch a strand of oozing cheese. It was savory and hot. He ate as he walked, licking cheese and béchamel off his fingers.  

The Musain was mostly empty, which meant Enjolras had his pick of seats. He put his backpack in their favored cluster of couches and chairs and went over to the bar. Musichetta smiled at him as she dried off some glasses. “Hey. The usual?”

He sighed and stuck his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know. I’m done with exams—surprise me.”

She chuckled. “That’s dangerous.”

He grinned. “I’m allowed to take risks now,” Enjolras said. “I’m on my own time.”

“Coming right up.”

She went over to the espresso machine and set to work. He grabbed a newspaper that someone had left on the bar and scanned the front page.

He was grimacing at an article about cuts of welfare when someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Enjolras, right?”

It was a blonde girl. He had seen her before. Right? He stalled, searching for a name, but she smiled and laughed a little. “I’m Cosette. Marius’s girlfriend?”

Right. Marius had defected from meetings for a while to chase after her, but after they were established she had come to a few meetings. She’d actually been pretty vocal, making suggestions and contributing to the conversation. “Yeah. Hi. It’s nice to see you.” 

“Are you done with exams?” she asked, putting her purse up on the bar.

“I just finished.”

“Me too. My last archaeology exam was this morning at _eight_.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. But luckily I got through with minimal pain. I only had to pull one all-nighter all  week. I’m rather proud of myself.”

Musichetta came over to them, a black cup balancing carefully on a saucer. “One surprise latte. It’s probably my best work, if I do say so myself.”

Enjolras turned the cup’s handle towards himself. “Thank you.”

“Can I get you something?” Musichetta asked.

“I’ll have a beer, please,” Cosette said.

“Sure. Don’t ask what’s in it,” She nodded down towards his latte. “Just enjoy.”

Enjolras picked up the cup. “I’m slightly afraid,” he said. “But she hasn’t let me down yet.” He took a sip, and sighed. He could pick up a hint of the homemade vanilla syrup Musichetta had started using, and something else he couldn’t totally figure out. Something creamy and nutty. And she had definitely snuck some alcohol in there somehow. It was sweet, but also a little bitter from the espresso, totally balanced and _perfect_.

“You don’t seem like a fancy drink man,” Cosette said. “You seem like you’d be more into black coffee. Or plain espresso.”

Enjolras smiled a little. “You would be surprised how often I hear that.” He had another sip before putting down his cup. “Actually…I can’t stand black coffee. It’s just too strong for me. And all my friends go heavy on the grounds. I prefer espresso drinks. But if I told anyone, it would ruin my ‘street cred’.”

Cosette sputtered and laughed. Musichetta came back with her beer, and she immediately raised it to her lips and drank half the bottle. “Ahhh. Beer’s never tasted better.”

“What did you think?” Musichetta asked.

“Amazing.”

“I put in vanilla and some _Amaretto_ syrup. I made the first batch last night. And then for good measure I added in a straight shot from the bar.”

“You’re perfect,” Enjolras said.

Musichetta shrugged. “I try.”

A group of five or six guys came in, and Enjolras and Cosette moved over to the couch. Enjolras read his paper while Cosette texted; they talked on and off, but the silences weren’t awkward, and it was nice.

Joly, Bossuet, and Jehan were the first ones to arrive for their group get-together. Combeferre and Courfeyrac came after that, and then Feuilly after his shift. Marius’s face lit up when he saw Cosette. Enjolras ordered another latte when he finished the first, and after that a round of beer for the whole group. 

“Ah, a loose and fancy-free Enjolras. It’s a rare and beautiful sight,” Courfeyrac said, looping an arm around Enjolras’s shoulder. Enjolras elbowed him, smiling.

Grantaire and Bahorel came in last, laughing and roughhousing with each other. Bahorel pushed Grantaire hard, and he fell into one of the tables, knocking over two chairs but managing to stay on his feet.

“Watch my tables!” Musichetta yelled. Enjolras put down his beer and jogged over to the bar.

“We didn’t miss anything, did we?” Bahorel asked, plopping down into Enjolras’s vacant spot and laying his head in Jehan’s lap.

“You missed Enjolras getting the first round. You’ll have to buy your own,” Bossuet said.

“What? Motherfucker,” Grantaire groaned. 

Joly nudged Grantaire. “Hey.” He pointed over to the bar.

Enjolras slowly came back towards the group, carefully balancing a cup and saucer in his hands. He stopped in front of Grantaire and held it out to him. “Here. On me.” It was a cup of black coffee.

Grantaire grinned. “You shouldn’t have.” Enjolras shrugged.

Their fingers brushed when Grantaire took the cup. Grantaire’s eyes sparkled, and Enjolras smiled.

 


End file.
